Post by devilinthedetails on Feb 27, 2022 2:47:38 GMT 10
Title: In Law and in Blood
Summary: An orphan, Shinko reflects on the ties of kinship in law and in blood.
Rating: PG-13 for sexuality and references to suicide.
Warnings: References to suicide and execution. Please read with caution and sensitivity for yourself.
Author's Note: Been awhile since I wrote a Roald/Shinko piece. The urge to write a Roald/Shinko story overcame me, and this is the result. I can't exactly call it fluff, but it is Roald/Shinko.
In Law and in Blood
Shinko walked alongside Roald. They were returning from a visit to a Corus orphanage she had founded and continued to fund. A chance for her to enjoy time with the children, joining in their crafts and games, but also to inspect the place. To ensure that the money she sent to the orphanage didn’t line back pockets, but instead paid for food, clothes, bedding, and other necessary supplies.
She was proud of the orphanage she had established in Corus. Proud, too, of the ones she had built in Port Legann, Port Caynn, Blue Harbor, and all the major Tortallan cities except Persopolis.
Persepolis didn’t require an orphanage. The Bazhir were tribal people. Fiercely devoted to each other. They looked after their own. In their society, orphans were not abandoned. Left to fend for themselves on the streets. Instead, they were taken into the tents of their closest living relatives, and, in a tribe, everyone had a closest living relative. That devotion to the collective–that commitment to the bonds of blood and family–was one of the traits Shinko respected most about the Bazhir of the Southern Desert. A quality that resonated deeply with her Yamani heritage and soul.
The northerners, Shinko thought, were very different. Much more individualist in their mindset and outlook. Far more likely to allow dirty children to gather like runoff–the unwanted sludge of society–in the gutters of their city. Leaving them to starve or to survive as beggars and thieves. Perfectly willing to knot a noose around their thin necks and swing them from the gallows when they did steal bread to fill their empty stomachs. To ignore the sweepings of the street until those sweepings became criminals to be punished. To be executed.
“You are good with the orphans,” Roald remarked. Intruding on her thoughts. Voice soft in the March air damp with the hint of a promised spring rain.
“That’s because I’m an orphan myself.” Shinko’s father and mother had been ordered to commit suicide. An imperial decree from her uncle that could not be disobeyed. Not without an even graver dishonor than ordered suicide. She had been raised a despised and distrusted member of that uncle’s court. Cleaner, more beautiful in dress and graceful in bearing, than the orphans clogging and festering in the ditches of Corus. An outcast and pariah like them. Accustomed, throughout her formative years, to being treated with scorn. Eyed as if she were something disgusting infected with a dreadful, contagious ailment. A living, breathing plague. In the all-seeing, sword-sharp gaze of Yama she was no different than the Tortallan orphans she dedicated herself to aiding. “I have no father. No mother.”
At this, Roald abruptly stopped walking. Since it would have been rude to carry on walking as if he were still beside her when he wasn’t, Shinko halted as well.
“You have a mother and a father, Shinko.” Roald took her silk-gloved hand between his own. Warming it. Squeezing softly. “My parents are yours too.”
“In the law, yes,” Shinko murmured. “Not in blood.”
Blood. A bad word to choose. One that made her think of the blood-soaked mats that had absorbed her father when he cut, ritually, into his own stomach and intestines. Ending his life in slow, painful fashion. A sacrifice to tradition. Loyalty. Imperial pride.
“In blood too.” Roald lifted her fingers to his mouth. Tenderly kissed each one. A movement that made her tantalizingly aware of how a layer of silk–easily lost–was all there was between her and his gentle, careful lips. A gesture that felt surprisingly intimate given that they had been married for years now. That he had been inside her many times. Finding pleasure within her. Giving her deep, private ecstasy of her own. “We’re married, Shinko. One flesh and one blood. Whatever I have is yours. We share everything.”
Unexpectedly, Shinko’s face cracked into a slight smile. It was so like her sentimental, kind-hearted husband to comfort her in such a manner. “You are a hopeless romantic, Roald.”
“Ah.” Roald grinned at her. “But I have made you smile, hopeless romantic that I am.”
He had. Suddenly self-conscious and ashamed of how she must resemble a horse baring its teeth for inspection prior to purchase (even if, fortunately, her husband did have a fondness for horses inherited from his mother), she raised the fingers that weren’t in his grip–pressed against his lips–to her own mouth. A properly bred Yamani woman never smiled without making every effort to reduce scandal by hiding it. It hurt to think that maybe she wasn’t such a properly bred Yamani woman any more. That perhaps she was becoming more Tortallan by the day.
“Please don’t hide your smile from me, my love.” Roald kissed her forehead. “It’s the most beautiful smile in the world to me.”
Shinko dropped her hand from her mouth. Smiled at him. Let him kiss her lips as he so obviously wanted to do. As she wanted him to do too.
Summary: An orphan, Shinko reflects on the ties of kinship in law and in blood.
Rating: PG-13 for sexuality and references to suicide.
Warnings: References to suicide and execution. Please read with caution and sensitivity for yourself.
Author's Note: Been awhile since I wrote a Roald/Shinko piece. The urge to write a Roald/Shinko story overcame me, and this is the result. I can't exactly call it fluff, but it is Roald/Shinko.
In Law and in Blood
Shinko walked alongside Roald. They were returning from a visit to a Corus orphanage she had founded and continued to fund. A chance for her to enjoy time with the children, joining in their crafts and games, but also to inspect the place. To ensure that the money she sent to the orphanage didn’t line back pockets, but instead paid for food, clothes, bedding, and other necessary supplies.
She was proud of the orphanage she had established in Corus. Proud, too, of the ones she had built in Port Legann, Port Caynn, Blue Harbor, and all the major Tortallan cities except Persopolis.
Persepolis didn’t require an orphanage. The Bazhir were tribal people. Fiercely devoted to each other. They looked after their own. In their society, orphans were not abandoned. Left to fend for themselves on the streets. Instead, they were taken into the tents of their closest living relatives, and, in a tribe, everyone had a closest living relative. That devotion to the collective–that commitment to the bonds of blood and family–was one of the traits Shinko respected most about the Bazhir of the Southern Desert. A quality that resonated deeply with her Yamani heritage and soul.
The northerners, Shinko thought, were very different. Much more individualist in their mindset and outlook. Far more likely to allow dirty children to gather like runoff–the unwanted sludge of society–in the gutters of their city. Leaving them to starve or to survive as beggars and thieves. Perfectly willing to knot a noose around their thin necks and swing them from the gallows when they did steal bread to fill their empty stomachs. To ignore the sweepings of the street until those sweepings became criminals to be punished. To be executed.
“You are good with the orphans,” Roald remarked. Intruding on her thoughts. Voice soft in the March air damp with the hint of a promised spring rain.
“That’s because I’m an orphan myself.” Shinko’s father and mother had been ordered to commit suicide. An imperial decree from her uncle that could not be disobeyed. Not without an even graver dishonor than ordered suicide. She had been raised a despised and distrusted member of that uncle’s court. Cleaner, more beautiful in dress and graceful in bearing, than the orphans clogging and festering in the ditches of Corus. An outcast and pariah like them. Accustomed, throughout her formative years, to being treated with scorn. Eyed as if she were something disgusting infected with a dreadful, contagious ailment. A living, breathing plague. In the all-seeing, sword-sharp gaze of Yama she was no different than the Tortallan orphans she dedicated herself to aiding. “I have no father. No mother.”
At this, Roald abruptly stopped walking. Since it would have been rude to carry on walking as if he were still beside her when he wasn’t, Shinko halted as well.
“You have a mother and a father, Shinko.” Roald took her silk-gloved hand between his own. Warming it. Squeezing softly. “My parents are yours too.”
“In the law, yes,” Shinko murmured. “Not in blood.”
Blood. A bad word to choose. One that made her think of the blood-soaked mats that had absorbed her father when he cut, ritually, into his own stomach and intestines. Ending his life in slow, painful fashion. A sacrifice to tradition. Loyalty. Imperial pride.
“In blood too.” Roald lifted her fingers to his mouth. Tenderly kissed each one. A movement that made her tantalizingly aware of how a layer of silk–easily lost–was all there was between her and his gentle, careful lips. A gesture that felt surprisingly intimate given that they had been married for years now. That he had been inside her many times. Finding pleasure within her. Giving her deep, private ecstasy of her own. “We’re married, Shinko. One flesh and one blood. Whatever I have is yours. We share everything.”
Unexpectedly, Shinko’s face cracked into a slight smile. It was so like her sentimental, kind-hearted husband to comfort her in such a manner. “You are a hopeless romantic, Roald.”
“Ah.” Roald grinned at her. “But I have made you smile, hopeless romantic that I am.”
He had. Suddenly self-conscious and ashamed of how she must resemble a horse baring its teeth for inspection prior to purchase (even if, fortunately, her husband did have a fondness for horses inherited from his mother), she raised the fingers that weren’t in his grip–pressed against his lips–to her own mouth. A properly bred Yamani woman never smiled without making every effort to reduce scandal by hiding it. It hurt to think that maybe she wasn’t such a properly bred Yamani woman any more. That perhaps she was becoming more Tortallan by the day.
“Please don’t hide your smile from me, my love.” Roald kissed her forehead. “It’s the most beautiful smile in the world to me.”
Shinko dropped her hand from her mouth. Smiled at him. Let him kiss her lips as he so obviously wanted to do. As she wanted him to do too.